


Galaxy's Edge

by wonderfuck



Category: Batman - Fandom, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Mentions of Substance Abuse, Mentions of Suicide, Mostly just general confusion, Reader Insert, Slow Burn, sibling shenanigans, some angst i suppose, with this family who doesn't tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:21:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29929203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderfuck/pseuds/wonderfuck
Summary: Chance is one thing. Jumping universes is another thing entirely. Now, how the fuck do you deal with angsty vigilantes?Or the one where you're caught in the crossfire between evil shenanigans and heroic shenanigans.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/ Being An OK Person-eventually, Dick Grayson/Other(s), Dick Grayson/Reader, Jason Todd/Reader, Tim Drake/Konner Kent
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	1. The Protagonist And The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't use y/n often. I do my best to avoid it. HOWEVER, sometimes it's just unavoidable. I suggest you use the InteractiveFics chrome extension available of the Chrome Web Store for free. 
> 
> Also, I had 10 chicken nuggets while making this so if you feel a real fucking gOoD vibe-that's on me and my mctasy ass chicken nuggets.

It was days like these when you wondered how it was _exactly_ that you’d wronged the universe for it to hate you so fervently. Everything that could  _ possibly _ go wrong was, well, going  _ very _ wrong. 

You’d begun the day with your tenant banging on your door, hollering about some delayed payment. Argument which went about unravelling  _ before _ you’d had so much as a whiff of coffee. To add to the assault on your morning, the argument (which you settled by reminding him he’d sent his son down earlier that week to collect the check for him) had made you late for work. Which, for the record, was very difficult to do given you worked at a bookstore not three blocks from your apartment. 

The day had been spent cringing beneath the scornful glare your senile boss was giving you. A stout, severe looking woman- who, despite her age lacked any sign of smile lines. 

By the time your shift had ended your boss, Mrs. Moore, had decided your tardiness (and the only one on your record) was unacceptable. 

So, not only had you worked an entire shift  _ starving _ -not daring to go on your break with Mrs. Moore glaring - now you were unemployed. 

The moment you stepped outside, as though on cue, fat drops of rain began to pelt the earth with a vengeance.

“Perfect!” You shouted at the sky. “My day couldn’t get  _ any _ better.” 

You marched back home, several odd looks coming your way as you did. Not that you minded, it was well earned but you were too pissed to care. 

Truly, today was not your day.

On the dreadful walk back to the safety of your rickety apartment, you found enough patience within yourself to untangle your earbuds and click on the first song you could find.

Although the music was blaring in your ears, as you approached your apartment complex your mind was far more focused on an odd sensation prickling at the back of your neck. That sixth sense that perhaps someone had their eyes on you.

It wouldn’t have been the first time, and the notion wasn’t unheard of. Your apartment complex was known to house some rather  _ shady _ people. The cops knew you by name, given you were often an eye witness to the crimes and oddities of your neighbors. 

So, you didn’t care to turn down your music or act as thought you felt you were being watched. You’d lived through plenty of both strange and terrible experiences while living there, a pair of eyes couldn’t do much damage. Especially, given the intricate locks you’d made sure to install on your doors and windows the moment you realized your shifts at the bookstore could only afford this  _ dump  _ for the criminally insane.

When you finally arrived at your door, soaked and in very much the right mood for a nap, you found yourself taking a pause. The feeling of being watched remained unflinching since it had begun.

That voice of reason in your head whispered anxiously at you.  _ They’ll know where you live! Whoever’s watching could be a real sick freak. This place houses plenty! _

Despite yourself and all that you’d learned from horror movie clichés, you pulled out your headphones and whirled around. You held your hand out in front of you, the mace on your keys held tightly within your forefingers.

That’s when you heard it. That god  _ awful _ screeching laughter. That tell tale sign of someone’s mind having gone down the drain. Whoever was watching you, you soon realized, was  _ deranged _ . And what was worse, the laughter bounced off the walls around you so acutely you couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

You turned back to your door, glancing back over your shoulder every few seconds. Your heart was doing a gymnastic routine in your chest, giving your lungs a run for their money.  Fumbling with your keys, you finally unlocked it stepped inside and when you did you made a point of slamming and locking your door. 

“ _ Shit _ .” You sighed to yourself, a wave of near nauseating relief flooding over you.

You slid a hand down your face and made your way into the kitchen, on a mission to make enough tea to put England to shame. Anything, really, to calm you down.

It was when you grabbed an empty mug in the kitchen sink that you noticed something. Something -  _ off _ .

You set the mug back down and narrowed your eyes at the table. “What-” Your eyes widened and your heart went back to work as anxiety kicked in.

The muffin you’d left untouched that morning was sitting on the table, looking dull in the filtered sunlight, with a large bite taken from it. A bite you hadn't taken.

You didn’t hesitate this time. Without a second thought you ran for the door, your hand in your pocket to retrieve your phone. You were fumbling with the lock, cursing under your breath when you heard it.

A voice, shrill and pointed with the indisputable raspiness of a man.

“Leaving so soon, birdy?” It was coming from your living room. 

You didn’t dare look, instead you managed to unlock your door with shaking hands. If you were going to leave, the moment was  _ now _ .

“Not so fast, bat brat.” There was an unmistakable  _ click _ to punctuate his sentence. 

You’d heard that  _ click _ before, and you weren’t keen on hearing what usually followed. 

You held your hands up and kept your eyes on the door. Although your shaking hands betrayed you, you allowed nothing else to exude any sort of fear. Any sign of being afraid-weak, you did your best to relinquish. 

So, you straightened your posture and cleared your throat. “What do you want?” You sounded like you were the one with the gun, something that surprised even you.

The sound of footsteps, light and slow echoed throughout the small apartment, malevolent in the way they took their time to reach you. Enticing you to gather more fear for whoever was holding the gun.

And while you didn’t dare say it aloud, it was _working_. You often prided yourself in your ability to remain calm when the situation called for it, but never had that been in relation to having an _armed_ _stranger_ break into your home.

“You look surprised.” He said, a tone of manic joy in his voice.

You allowed yourself a side glance to your intruder. In a two second glimpse in search of clarity, you’d never been more confused.

Your intruder was dressed in a purple pinstripe three piece suit with a green shirt tucked away beneath a yellow vest and a matching purple ribbon style bowtie to tie it all together. In your opinion, which you’d have voiced aloud had it not been for the gun in his hand, it looked as though a rainbow had vomited on him and the color blind laundry aid tasked to fix it had done a  _ terrible _ job. 

However, it wasn’t the terrible fashion that made your stomach sink. No, it was the rest of him. 

Stretched tightly over his skull was skin so pale - so  _ white _ it was a wonder he was standing at all. You assumed he was some sort of world class anemic, with his striking paleness.

His red stained lips were stretched in a smile so wide, you could have sworn it was  _ impossible _ . But the wickedness of it matched perfectly with the insanity that filled his bulging green eyes. 

You swallowed and closed your eyes briefly. There was a striking familiarity about him. But you were certain you’d never met him, who’d ever forget a face like  _ that _ ?

Then it hit you. When you used to be obsessed with comics as a kid, you held a particular liking to Batman and all his heroic crusades. You’d seen a very similar face to this one among the pages of those fantasies.

The man responsible for whether you lived or died right then and there, did not only believe himself to be The Joker but was also genuinely  _ insane. _

You wanted to laugh. And perhaps you would have had you not also been filled with an overwhelming desire to cry until you no longer could. It was pathetic, but really what else could you do?

“Yeah, well it isn’t every day I get unsolicited visits from a clown.” You finally said, briefly wondering if this man was crazy enough to leave your death a mystery. 

He gave a shrill cackle, manic in the way it lasted far too long and sounded far too genuine. “You thought you could  _ fool _ me did you? How  _ cute _ . Although, I must say I’m  _ quite _ disappointed.”

You found yourself frowning at the door, questions poised on your tongue.  _ What on earth was this guy on about _ ?

He called out your name, “I followed you around all day. Batsy must be really upset with you to send you to live such a  _ boring _ life. Can't even do it right by the looks of it. _Fired_ , oh what'll the 'ol man say!”

The sound of your name rolling off his tongue made goosebumps rise on your skin.

You shook your head and turned around, very slowly and with your hands still in the air, to face him. “Look, man. I don’t know  what _insane asylum_ you escaped from but I promise you that the gun in your hands will do  _ nothing _ for your case.” You spoke slowly, and as softly as you could muster. “If you put the gun down, I can forget this ever happened. No one needs to know.”

At this the man threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Oh, you’re a  _ riot _ _!”_ He shrieked and slapped a hand across his knee. “You can play dumb all you’d like, sweetheart.” His laughter died out abruptly and his skeletal grin shrunk into a crooked sneer. “But I know who you are.”

You kept a wary eye on the gun. His hand was clenching and unclenching around the handle, his finger bouncing wildly beside the trigger. “Excuse-excuse me?” You stuttered.

The man’s grin returned and he began to jiggle his shoulders and twist his hips in a disturbing kind of boastful dance. “I know what the big bad bat has been up to.” He sang.

He spun around and flung out his hands, as though finishing a musical number. “And now,” He pointed a finger at you, frowned and then pointed the gun at you again. “You’re no longer his little secret.”

You take a deep breath. The amount of things wrong with all that had just gone down in the last five minutes was enough to make you give up on everything, smack Mrs. Moore and then jump off a cliff.

Resigned to living long enough to do that, you decided to play along. 

“I thought you’d figure it out eventually.” You shrugged, balling your hands into fists to hide their trembling. “You’ve quite the reputation for being sharp.”

He leaned an arm against the wall and feigned embarrassment. “Well, ya got me there.” 

As he went on about how flustered you’d made him and how observant you were, you decided to make a move. You took a cautious step forward, testing the waters. When he didn’t pay you any attention, you took another few until you were satisfied with the short distance between the two of you. 

“What happens now? You’ve caught me. You did what we thought impossible.” You asked gently, hoping your interruption of his nonsensical rambling wouldn’t tick him off.

He didn’t seem to mind, in fact he looked delighted by the question.

“Darling, the world is a joke and nothing’s _impossible_. Improbable, to those crippled by sanity-yes. But, anyway. The next part of this little show ends with you on the floor.” He pushed off the wall and held the gun to your face with both hands. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean you up real pretty when I toss your body through old Batsy’s window.”

Everything within you was screaming at you to beg. Get on your knees, cry and scream at him that you’ve got  _ something  _ to live for.

_But that would be_ _lying. Am I a liar now too?_

Maybe, you realized, you don’t have anything to live for. Maybe you’ve got a  _ less _ than ideal life. Maybe, and especially at that very moment, things just  _ really fucking sucked. _

But you weren’t going to let that be an excuse. The day you died, it would be on your terms. And you’d be damned if you were gonna let this clown of horrors be the last thing you saw.

You pushed aside every instinct to cry, to beg, to be afraid and your body simply went  _ fuck it _ .

You bent at the knees and hunched over, and before the clown could react you launched yourself at him.

“What are you a  _ cat-” _

You brought your hands up under his arm. Just beside your shoulder the gun went off. 

The  _ bang _ made your ears ring, and you had a lingering notion of deafness before you were brought back to the moment with the sound of the gun clattering to the floor.

You’re not sure what made him drop the gun, but you didn’t linger on it too long. He’s stumbling over himself, cursing very creatively.

_ “Shit!”  _ You glance back at the clown.

He straightened, looked to you and then the gun on the tiled floor. “Oh no, kitten. I think  _ not _ .”

When he lunged at you, it was an afterthought to be afraid. You acted without thinking. “Shut  _ up _ !” You pulled your leg back and planted the sole of your left tennis shoe square against his chest. While the power for both you and the clown came as a surprise it left you with the upper hand.

You dived to the floor, your hip slamming ruthlessly against the tile. Skipping the horror movie cliche, your gun wrapped around the handle and you wiggled onto your back, shoulders raised-barrel aimed between his brows.

“You little  _ snake. _ ” He grinned, as though pleased to have a bullet trained on his head. “So, so,  _ so slippery,  _ you.”

You were panting, chest rising and falling a lot faster than you wanted. But that hardly mattered. No, what mattered was the choice you had before you. Less than an ounce of pressure and you were the one to decide if he lived or died.

There was nothing you wanted more badly than to be able to pull the trigger, not to hesitate. 

“Give me a reason not to.” You shouted, your voice was rigid and far louder than you’d intended, but  _ fuck _ if you were going to apologize for it.

There was no fear in his eyes as he smiled down at you. There was no sign of wariness in those bulging eyes of his, but rather delight. He reached into his inner coat pocket, something you reckon you should have shot him for.  You couldn’t seem to find it in you to pull the trigger, but your aim didn’t stray and your glare didn’t waver. 

He pulled out what looked to be a dead man's switch. His finger sat atop the bright red button and he was waving it around like he’d won a prize.

You scrambled to your feet, gun lowering from his head to his chest. “What  _ is that _ _?”_

When a smile was all you got as a response you squared your shoulders and raised the barrel back to his forehead. “You talk  _ now _ before I decide I’ve had enough of your voice.”

He shrugged, “Few words?”

“Less.” You growled.

He grinned abnormally wide, and for a moment you're sure he’s the embodiment of the deranged fictional character.

“We’ll meet again, bat brat.” And then he double clicked the button. Fear wasn’t given the time to burn your veins.

Light flooded the room, and suddenly your ears popped. You felt him grab at your arm, and although you couldn’t see  _ shit _ you didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

You were pulled forward as the shot was fired and you heard him howl in pain. “ _ Bitch!”  _

That would have normally offended you but you were far too focused on the fact that you had stumbled forward into  _ nothing _ .

No  _ floor.  _ And whatever sixth sense you had was telling you no rest of  _ anything _ . You couldn’t even sense that  _ creep _ anymore.

But just as soon as you felt the absence of the world, it was all gone and you hit the ground again. 

_ Hard. _

Your knees took the brunt of it, and for a moment you were nearly convinced it had left them broken.

_ “Fucking hell _ .” You grumbled. A complaint, which much to both your surprise and horror echoed back at you.

The pain aching throughout your body was pushed aside when you finally took in your surroundings. 

Where it had previously been early evening, it looked to be late into the night. But that wasn’t the worst of it. No, the worst was that your apartment was gone and in its place was a  _ very sketchy _ looking alley. 

Just as you were reaching for your phone to dial that wonderful three digit number, you remembered what had caused the entire mess.

Your neck whipped around, nearly giving you whiplash in search of any hint of him. “That Joker son of a bitch-where did he go?” You tell yourself, delayed adrenaline flooding your veins.

You were ready to go back to your dialing of 9-1-1 when you heard the pounding of something against metal from above you.

“What did you just say about The Joker?”


	2. You're Not In Kansas Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where you're forced to acknowledge the issue at hand and when really you're a big fan of ignoring problems until they go away, that might be a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not relevant, but imagine what would've happened if Bruce Wayne just went to therapy instead of deciding to dress up as an emo man bat and karate chop his way through his feelings. Like where would we be as a society?

So here you are. Aching, confused, and flooded with a tidal wave of adrenaline that leaves your hands shaking.

If blinking and ending up in a dark alley with what looks to be storm clouds above isn’t bad enough, you find yourself squinting and straining your neck to figure out _who the fuck is talking to you_.

“Introductions first, uh, _sir?”_ You call out, not quite sure what it is you heard.

On the fire escape above you a bulky shadow is hunching over the railing. You consider the possibility that it’s some sort of statue or mechanism for tourism, because _what else has a smooth helmet head?_

The figure shifts along the fire escape. It’s movements surprise you. For something or _someone_ so burly it moves incredibly quickly and fluidly. 

There’s a moment where all that fills the air is the echo of their movements along the landing. Nothing and then they throw themselves over the railing.

A yelp escapes your throat. Their boots hit the pavement with a fury that sends goosebumps up your spine.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of me.” The voice says, brushing their pants off. It’s distorted and sounds vaguely mechanical. 

  
  


The figure steps into the light, and your head nearly explodes. You’re tempted to slap yourself. 

It’s a man. Familiar in a sense you’d long since hoped to experience. 

He’s sporting dark cargo pants, a tights armored shirt with a red bat spread across the chest and a brown leather jacket. His face is hidden from you, and all you find yourself staring at are the blank white slots for eyes in a smooth red helmet. 

And if the attitude of angst, and the terribly obvious marking on his chest isn’t enough, the helmet does it for you. 

Pieces slowly come together in your mind. The lunatic in your apartment, the bad day. _Of course_. 

A laugh bubbles in your chest. _This is ridiculous._

“God, I _really_ must have had it bad.” You let yourself relax. Your hand falls to the pavement while the other one holds your head. “It’s been a while since I blacked out _this bad_.”

Above you the man grumbles a string of curses you can’t make out, but it serves to remind you that he’s there. 

“What?” You look up at him. “Don’t tell me I promised to _fuck_ you. I probably felt like a good idea half an hour ago but whatever that creep pulled sobered me up and-”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He barks. 

_Great. Just had to pick an asshole_. 

You sigh, and try to get to your feet. It’s a painful affair. Both physically and simply in the sense that it takes about a minute of awkward struggle for you to manage it. All the while the stranger watches you. It’s embarrassing, but given an intoxicated version of yourself did this, you decide to ignore the feeling. 

“You. The other guy. What convention did you wander from? I’ll find my way back from there.” You say as you dust off your knees. They’re bloody and scraped with the early signs of ugly bruises already showing. 

The man before you tilts his head to the side. _“What?”_

Figuring you have time to explain to the poor guy just how _fucked up_ you are, you roll your shoulders back and shake your head. 

“Listen, dude. I was fired today for something that wasn’t really my fault. I don’t remember but given I remember a _clown_ in my apartment and now _you_ , I’m guessing I popped something I shouldn’t have or drank my sorrows away _too_ well.” You press your hands to your temples. The headache you should be nursing doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of making an appearance. 

“I honestly didn’t know there were any conventions in town so this must have been my neighbors idea of a joke.” You think back to Randy. The guy next door that always seems to get along swell with the less than sober version of you. “A DC one too. They’re less popular. The last time I saw a Jason Todd and a Joker was like ages ago. Looks good, though.”

You glance back over your shoulder. The street looks lonely, trashed and sketchy. The kind you’re used to. _Cool, shouldn’t be too far from home_. 

“So,” You turn back to the man. “Where’s it at? I can call a cab from there and pretend _none_ of this ever happened.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t make any attempt to convey he did so much as hear you. You take the time to _really_ look at him. 

For a random cosplayer, he looks _good_ . Obviously this guy is familiar with a gym. He’s bulky in a strangely athletic way. Like a swimmer but with more mass. He’s gotten that rugged exterior down just right, and you suddenly understand why the intoxicated version of you would _want_ to fuck him. 

“You’re coming with me.” He takes a step forward, you stumble two steps back. 

A nervous laugh finds its way past your lips. “I’m sorry, man. I’m not up for this. I’m sorry.” 

His hand, outstretched, falters on its way to you. Like, he’s genuinely confused. But you’re done explaining yourself. 

You don’t give it another thought. You turn on your heel and sprint out of the alley. 

The street is barely lit by two flickering street lights. It’s unfamiliar to you. The buildings, the skyline. This isn’t your hometown. 

You falter and look back. The stranger is nowhere to be seen. Which, opportunely gives you the chance to turn your fear to the empty, foreign street. 

“Oh, you fucked up big time.” You mumble, eyes circling around the street. “ _You’ll feel better after you move. You won’t even feel the urge.”_ You groan, recalling all the _bullshit_ your AA leader had said when you left. 

Now, you’d fucked up so badly you don’t even remember taking so much as a sip of anything. Much less unscrewing a bottle of anything. 

A year off any bullshit and a single blunder sent you spiraling. It’s enough to make you want to scream. Not at the world this time, but at the tower of pathetic _bullshit_ inside you. 

You turn the corner onto what you assume is another street. Of course, knowing your luck it isn’t another street. But yet another alleyway. 

_“Shit.”_ You groan and turn back around. 

The dimly lit street isn’t what greets you, but rather a red bat. 

Your heart jumps into your throat, and the last thing that goes through your mind is just how _well made_ this costume is. Last thought before he raises his arm, gun in hand and everything goes dark. 

***

Vaguely, the taste of nothing dances on your tongue. Familiar if only just barely. It’s the first thing you notice when you realize you aren’t dead. 

At least, you don’t think you are. You figure that dead people probably can’t think, or feel, or taste. And your feeling, tasting and thinking. 

And as it turns out, you’re also hearing. 

“-my name. What else was I supposed to do?” A voice is saying. Gruff and angry. Vaguely familiar as well. 

There’s a sigh from across the room. Drawn out and exaggerated. “I don’t know, Jay. Maybe start by _not_ shooting her with a tranquilizer.”

There’s shuffling across the room and then the pounding of something blunt on metal. “I got it, _Dick_.” 

It’s odd, the way he says it. As though it were a way to address someone while also being an insult. If you weren’t so confused, and afraid, you would have laughed.

“You think my _extracurriculars_ are-”

“Less than stellar?”

“Just get your head out of your ass for two seconds, and give me a hand.”

You try to open your eyes. They feel as though they’ve been glued together, but perhaps not well enough because you manage it either way. Slowly, but surely they manage to flutter open-squinting against the sudden invasion of light.

The Dick of the conversations huffs in amusement. “Is that your way of asking for help? Jay, I’m honored.”

The Jay in question grumbles a string of creative curses before you finally manage to move a muscle. Your hands are first. Hesitantly, and vaguely afraid of who this Jay and Dick could be you allow your body to _slowly_ creep upward into a sitting position.

You’re lying on a cool metal table (which would explain the back pain) and you notice how _terribly_ lit the room is. Dark, stuffy and small. The only light is coming from a single light bulb above you and a rather large screen across the room. Screen where two figures are hunched over, exchanging whispers. 

When you look at the door not five feet from you, you also notice the rifle next to it. Rifle which looks old. Rifle which looks _used_.

Before you can debate what to do, or figure out how likely it is you could figure out how to use a rifle in less than thirty seconds off movie knowledge alone-a voice pipes up next to you.

“Good morning.”

You flinch and scoot away before you turn around. 

At the table side, looking a bit wounded, a man is staring. His hand is up in a frozen greeting. Overall, dressed in a great Nightwing costume, he looks nice enough. Harmless, however you wait out on considering.

“Morning.” You respond hesitantly. You may be afraid and confused, but god forbid you’d be rude about a _good morning_. “I’m pretty sure it’s past midnight now, but- morning.”

The man smiles broadly, and much to your concern, it’s _genuine._ You know so in the way it reaches his eyes. Bright olympic blue and drowning in what looks to be _enthusiasm_. It’s especially alarming given the mask that frames those eyes, bringing special attention to them. 

“She doesn’t seem so bad.” He turns to the computer where the other figure remains hidden. 

“She doesn’t know your name.” The other man grumbles.

You squint toward the corner, trying to make him out when Dick scoffs. “What does _your_ identity matter? Anyone hears about you and they’ve got a grave to answer to.”

_Okay, so this is_ extreme _cosplay._

You clear your throat, holding back a wince when you realize just how dry it is. Both figures stop talking, much to your surprise. The one dressed as Nightwing even seems interested in what you want to say.

“I’m sure I probably said I was ok with this cosplay thing after a few drinks.” You gesture vaguely to Nightwing. “To be fair you’re like the perfect fit for Dick Grayson. And the other guy too for Jason. But, I’m more or less sober now by the looks of it so-”

“I’m sorry _what?”_ Nightwing interrupts. 

You sigh, but before you can respond the second figure steps into the light. This time his helmet is off. It’s _extremely_ disorienting to find out just how _good_ a face he’s got. The both of them, actually.

“She’s been spewing the same bullshit since I met her.” He says, eyes narrowed at you. He’s wearing a mask like the other guy, and his eyes are just as striking. A different shade of blue, exuding nothing but silent rage and perhaps judgement.

“You knew me for like thirty seconds. And I wouldn’t say _met_ if I don’t remember.” You protest, growing more and more tired of this game.

Nightwing steps closer. “How do you know who I am?”

You slide a hand down your face. Really, this asshole couldn’t get more irritating. If you weren’t such a _great person_ you’d have punched him in the face.But seeing as you were feeling merciful (especially given one of these motherfuckers has a tranquilizer gun on him) you jump off the table and turn to him. 

“I’m not playing your game. _Everyone_ knows who you are. You’re the first robin, it’d be hard not too. It’s the other ones that would be harder-you know given they’re only in the comics mostly.” You shrug and turn to the one dressed as Red Hood. “Like you. Jason was the second Robin but he’s usually forgotten. Last time I went to a convention it was mostly Red Robins and the Wayne kid. The girls too, they’re popular. Especially Stephanie Brown and Cassandra Cain.”

At this point you expect them to finally finish their game. To break character and tell you they aren’t stupid, that they know all this. You expect them to be the average assholes that just _have_ to be right all the time. Especially about superheroes and especially over a girl.

Instead, the grumpy Jason Todd marches straight at you. You take a step back, suddenly realizing just how much larger he is than you. “You.” He jabs an accusing finger at your chest. “ _Who_ sent you?”

Now, you’ve lost your patience. “Seriously?” You snap. “I get drugged-tranquilized, _whatever_ , and _this_ is what I get? I didn’t ask to be here alright. I am _so_ sorry if we had some sort of agreement to play pretend-I mean even though you’re _grown ass_ man, but I’m done.” 

You step back toward the door, your heart pounding. You aren’t sure if it’s because of your growing rage or the fact that both men are staring you down. Taller than you, bulkier than you, and apparently far more armed than you.

_What the fuck did you get yourself into?_

You take a moment to close your eyes. No, it’s not smart but you _have_ to calm down if you’re going to find a way out of this.

“I know that stupid clown has something to do with this. Bet the gun wasn’t even real. Crazy son of a-”

A hand clasps your shoulder and your eyes fly open again. Nightwing is holding your shoulder with one hand and holding another one out away from you. His hand is pressed against the Red Hood’s chest, effectively holding him back.

“Jason, _calm down_. We’re going to talk this out. She’s confused, and threatening her isn’t going to make it any better.” Nightwing warns. His voice is steady and commanding, and in an odd way-soothing.

You stare down at the grip he has on your shoulder. There’s something strangely irritating about it. And you’d shun him for it if it wasn't also the first time in a long time someone has tried anything near comforting when it came to you. 

Nightwing doesn’t notice. His hand doesn’t move. But he does turn to you, eyes wide and earnest. It’s strange. You swear you can see through him. Like he’s willing to let you take it all in. He wants you to see him, and it seems you’re happy to oblige.

“Tell us everything that happened today. What you remember, up until you met Red here.” He says it slowly, like you won’t understand.

You glance at Jason. He’s still tense and poised with fury, but he’s stepped back. Much unlike Nightwing, he’s not as open to be read. His eyes are on yours, but not for you to read. 

The blue of his eyes is colder. You can’t see anything other than the gears turning behind them, debating whether or not you're worth listening to. He’s built, as it seems, for survival. You’ve seen that look before, and for a brief moment you wonder what it is this man has gone through for him to have gained those eyes.

“Okay.” You step away from Nightwing. His hand falls to his side. “I tell you this and you let me go.”

He glances back at Jason. Jason steps forward, brushing aside Nightwing’s hand. “You tell us this, and we help you understand. _That’s_ the deal.”

So, you tell them. Not entirely because you feel threatened, and not at all because they’ve ordered it. You tell them about your terrible day and the clown, his rambling, and the flash of light. And you tell them about your meeting with the best Jason Todd cosplayer you’d seen in years. You spill it all, because maybe they can help you understand. Maybe they have some recollection of the crusades of the drunk version of you.

When you’re done, and they nod as though having successfully taken it all in you expect them to laugh at you. Yell, even. You _prepare_ for it, mentally. But they don’t. They don’t call you crazy and they don’t call you a drunk.

Jason leans against the table and slumps over. “ _Shit.”_ He whispers.

Nightwing is pinching the bridge of his nose and mumbling things you can’t quite make out.

Somehow, you figure, this is worse than the screaming and the laughing you’d prepared yourself for.

Jason lifts his head up to look at Nightwing.“How the _fuck_ did he get his _slimy_ hands on one?” 

Nightwing shakes his head. “Hell, if I know. That’s not what matters. We had _one_ shot. And he punched a whole through the wrong dimension. _Twice.”_

Now, this- _this_ is completely bizarre. Maybe, you consider, _they’re_ the crazy ones.

“Okay, okay. Hold up!” You step to the table, just beside Jason. Sure, he scares you but at least it seems he knows something you don’t and the hostility is no longer lingering.

“Will one of you explain to me what the _fuck_ you’re talking about!” Your demand comes out a lot louder than you meant it to be. Nightwing flinches.

The room is silent for a moment. A moment and then Jason sighs. “We aren’t _cosplayers_. We’re the real deal. That flash The Joker set off? That was him opening a portal between dimensions. You aren’t in Kansas anymore.”

Your legs feel like lead, and your head is beginning to ache. _What the fuck?_ “Feel free not to reference The Wizard of Oz after spewing bullshit.” You chuckle nervously. Mostly, to convince yourself they’re crazy, which given the circumstances isn’t too hard to believe.

But then there’s, well, everything else. You recall stepping out into _nothing_ . Like gravity wasn’t real, like you were standing on the edge of _nothing_. 

And suddenly the worst part isn’t their insanity, but the possibility that they _aren’t_. But deniability, up to this point, is plausible and you’re going to take advantage of it. 

“You’re crazy.” You finally say, because _no_ this clown show can’t possibly be your new reality. 

Jason narrows his eyes at you. “You’re the one that thought I wanted-”

Your face flushes red. “Okay! Yeah, so I don’t have the best track record with you so far. To be fair, you’re not the first guy to dress up. So I _thought-”_

“You make a habit of lurking around conventions for _that_? You got issues.” He scoffs.

You roll your eyes. “Says _you_. You’re like the poster child for teen rebellion and angst.”

“I died.” He deadpans.

“I _know!_ ”

Nightwing steps between the two of you, hands up. “Okay, clearly I missed something. _However,_ I’m inclined to prove to you why we aren’t crazy-and pretend none of that just happened.”

There’s an inch at the back of your head that’s begging to ignore Nightwing and pursue further petty argumentation with the other man. However, he poses an interesting change of direction. 

“Prove to me that you’re really Nightwing?” You take a step back and fold your arms over your chest. “And how the hell would you do _that?”_

The notion is entertaining enough. Two gym nerds trying to convince you that they’re real vigilantes. Two himbos that _really_ want to sleep with you.

Of course, that’s what you keep telling yourself when Nightwing smiles and nods at you. That’s what you echo to yourself when Jason pulls out his phone and dials his supposed _proof_. 

As entertaining and pathetic as the notion is, it beats the alternative. Because at this point you know they aren’t insane. They’re far too cognizant for that. No, the alternative is that they aren’t _liars._ And _that_ is something you don’t think you’re prepared for. So, you put on your best ‘ _fuck all’_ face and pretend you’re staying to prove that you’ve hit rock bottom and these are two nerdy himbos in need of therapy. 

“So, does you proof come in form of a slideshow or-”

“Would Batman do it for you?” Jason snaps, effectively cutting you off.

_Well, shit_ . “Uh huh, _sure_. Except he’s technically just a rich orphan in desperate need of therapy.” You hum.

Nightwing bites back a laugh before shaking his head, “ _What?”_

“I.e, he could be anyone and suddenly proof isn’t really proof but another dude in good cosplay.” You reason, trying to ignore Jason’s stare. It might as well be burning you alive with its intensity.

For a minute or two the room is dead silent. Nightwing, awkwardly squinting up at the ceiling while Red Hood stares at you with an air of _intense angst_.

Two minutes and then Jason breaks the silence. “So where’s Wayne Enterprise where you’re from?” It’s a gentle demand, like he knows what you’ll say. 

You gape at him for a moment, at a loss for words. The light of passing cars lights his face up momentarily enough to see him smirking at you. The kind of smirk only an asshole who’s won would give. 

It’s enough to make your blood boil. “There’s no _Gotham_ and there’s no _Wayne Enterprise_ . It’s not _real_ . _”_ You snap.

Jason tilts his head to the side, his face dipping into the lit part of the window. There’s something diabolical in the way his face is split between shadow and light. The smirk has morphed into a small smile. Knowing and mocking all at once.

“So, if we were to take you to Wayne Enterprise and show you all the _Gotham_ city signs will you believe us?” He says it slowly, the small smile growing into a shit eating grin. 

You glance at Nightwing. He’s smiling broadly at Jason, almost like he’s proud. It makes you want to scream.

“Fine. You give me a tour of your supposed _Gotham_ and I believe you.” You aren’t one to shake hands, much less _touch_ people, but when Jason steps to you and holds out a hand you do it out of spite. 

You grip his hand as tightly as you can manage and shake it as firmly as his bulk will allow. He smiles down at you, reading into your intent. “Deal.” He says.

“Deal.” You sneer.

**Author's Note:**

> Jared Leto is not the face of this Joker. Think, instead, of a carton of milk. Chunky, sour and over nasty sitting in an active nuclear plant for over a decade and then becoming a person. Yeah. No bueno. Let's not get hot and bothered over the personification of terror, folks. It's bad luck.


End file.
